A Running Collection

Nothing about this life of ours is slow. It is on or off. Stop and Go. Fast and faster. Accomplish. Succeed. But the irony of it all is that it was like being on a tread mill. I wasn't really going anywhere. Nothing was happening. Slow, I've discovered, doesn't mean failure, laziness, and unaccomplished. The last week has been slow. Slow enough to read two books. Slow enough to work in the garden along side George and the children. I crouched down between two rows of okra. It was cool in there. A little cave. I bent over and cut. Squatted and cut. Plopped right down in the cool dirt and cut. Suddenly I had two gallons of okra. Then the beans. No hurries, just picking one after the other. And today. We made our way to the pond at grandmother's. Amelia caught some grasshoppers. George Wilder counted and picked and pulled at the dirt mound of worms. George fished for minnowesque fish. I sat and watched and smiled. I don't sit. Sitting isn't what I do; but as my bel...

Summer is here. Frozen bananas on a stick. A meal straight from our backyard. Processing 64 ears of corn before lunch. Pickling, canning, freezing, brewing beer, singing sea shanties late into the evening with David and Katie. Diving into water, the legos, dancing, coloring, music, and the bed when we are popping with food and love and exhaustion. The children feel summer . . . Amelia made deviled eggs solo. She is definitely a southern lady! George Wilder is already writing songs. He sang this for me while I wrote it down: I love you in the morning. It is starting to rain. I love you when I was growing it’s a happy day when I sing my song. It’s a happy day

George wasn't not so impressed when I asked for Gatorade in bed for the third straight morning in a row. He asked if had already been two weeks. Honestly, I fell 99% percent better after fighting a stomach virus on top of pregnancy; however, I did feel a bit weak in the knees and thought some lemon and lime electrolyte filled juice might start me out on the right foot. Cuddling with the children for several minutes was quite helpful. Especially with George Wilder's antics. . . George Wilder shows us how long he is. He gets completely flat on his back and holds his arms tight to his side and points his toes down as far as they will go and says, "Look how long I am." He is sure he is the longest. Good thing he can't read a ruler yet! I felt the electrolytes find a home and ventured out to prepare breakfast. First, unload the dishwasher. Two minutes in, I managed to stab my elbow with a fork. Really stab it. Sticking out and everything. Marathons? Yes. Natural child...

Amelia and George Wilder are at "Grandparent Camp". The perfect win win situation. They are with cousins and Ema and Abuelo and George and I are here -- alone. This has not happened since we were sans children. It is quiet. It is clean. It is sanitized. Well, it isn't really quiet because George is pickin' away at his new banjo. It is beautiful and it sounds amazing. He has played in every room, he has played for the garden and the chickens. I think the plants love it because they are going crazy. Zucchini. Squash. Cucumbers. Okra. Peppers. Tomatoes. Collards. Beans. Another Type of Beans. Peas. Corn. It is beautiful. He is an garden artist. Really, it is beautiful and delicious! I thought I would try and complete as many projects as I possibly could, but that didn't happen. I've stopped. Rested. Rested again. Walked around. Rested again. It is lovely. But it is empty. The children fill it with noise, and toys and treasures from outside and dirt from outside. ...

They stare back at you -- the leaves, the sand, the crawfish shell left by a raccoon, the blue heron foot prints, the little clams Amelia collected. When there is no need to sift the raw from the manufactured, these elements seep into my soul and I feel more alive, more real, brighter, and calmer. The dark darkness. The quiet quiet. The humming waterfall. All of this fills my senses and I want for nothing. There is a birds nest on the corner bureau with hungry babies waiting for a snack from mama bird. She flitters and floats from the high places. She know we are here but she is resigned to it. The children squeal as she finds a perch and waits until no one is watching before taking her family a snack. And the rain. It is luxurious. It hits the tin roof with loud punctual thuds and it is brilliant. A symphony of sound. It promises a cooler day, cooler water, and a greener earth. This is our place, but we can't stay. Maybe one day.